by Gary Taylor
But that mood changed abruptly when I pulled up to the house of Strong and saw Jim patrolling the sidewalk outside with a shotgun in his arms.
"Get down on the floor," I told Little E, as I swung into the driveway and Strong came to my window.
"We've been hit," he said. "Burglars have been here. I just got home, and they may still be inside. I grabbed the shotgun in the garage and waited for you when I saw you turning up the street."
I got out of my car, and we walked cautiously toward his front door, which was standing open. I looked around over my shoulder and motioned for Little E to stay down on the floor when I saw her peeking over the dashboard. We entered the house and looked around. Once we concluded the invaders had left, I went back to the car for Little E and brought her inside. Then we took a mental inventory of the damage.
I saw immediately they had snatched the cheap stereo in my room, along with the Eagles' Desperado album which had been on the turntable. In addition, I noticed they had been through my dresser drawers. I tried to remember what might be missing. The list included some inconsequential items such as my copy of Catherine's Exorcist Tape and a couple of photos of her. If it had just been the stolen property, I could have laughed this off. As I thought about this invasion, however, I realized it meant much more than the loot. I doubted that the primary mission had been theft and concluded Catherine had sent over some boys to teach me one of her lessons. My anger started to rise when I imagined what might have happened had I stumbled across them with Little E in tow.
Strong, of course, suffered greater material losses than me. Atop his list was one of the original Sony BetaMax video recording units, a prized electronic possession at that time. In addition, the burglars had known to crawl under his mattress for the .357 Magnum revolver he kept hidden there. They also had snatched a police officer's heavy duty black flashlight that Strong once had sarcastically offered to Catherine as a weapon for defense in ridiculing her complaints about beatings from me.
We didn't need a Mensa card to focus quickly on a chief suspect. And although Don Stricklin did not normally take burglary calls as head of Special Crimes, he took ours at his home and dispatched a police unit to get fingerprints. After the cops left, we decided to assist the investigation ourselves. We hooked a recorder up to a phone and each made a call to Catherine at her apartment. She reacted to both of us in a similar fashion, assuming a recorder was running and firmly denying our allegations. But she laced her denials with giggles and laughter I took as a subliminal acknowledgement she had triggered an intended reaction.
In his conversation, Strong appealed to any sense of fair play she might have had, telling her he wanted a return of his stolen belongings and separating himself from me by emphasizing he had done nothing to hurt her.
I took a different tack, insisting I did not care about my stolen property and laughing about this latest attempt to get my attention. With this plan I hoped to trick her into an angry rebuttal on tape that would allow me to provide Stricklin with more evidence that could at least prompt questioning about this burglary. We knew it was a long shot, but Strong and I had decided to do everything possible to use this burglary as the mistake that would take her down.
"Celebrating tonight?" I asked, when she picked up the phone.
"Gary, I don't know what you are talking about. Jim just called me, too. I'm sorry to hear about your problem over there."
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "I just wanted to let you know that stereo isn't worth a shit, and I can't even find anything else of mine that's missing. Your goons may want you to pay them to make up the difference for loot that's fit only for a homeless shelter."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Yeah, yeah. I just wanted to let you know this kind of work is really beneath you. It's about like the Mafia rolling a wino for pocket change, really a joke, you know—"
"I have to stop you, Gary. I have a young man here with me tonight, and I have to say, he's giving me a look like he thinks you must be crazy. I certainly don't want him thinking I consort with lunatics."
"Yeah, your alibi is solid, huh? That's good because—"
Then she hung up. I looked around my bedroom where Little E had fallen asleep on my bed. Strong was wandering around the house making a list for his insurance carrier and shaking his head.
"This is Tedesco all over again," he said. "Interesting to note your initials are GT, too. I wonder if this is the end of it."
Reality then smacked me square in the face. I recalled Catherine's response when I had asked her how our relationship would end. She had said, One of us has to die! Then, I flashed on Logan's comment from his meeting with her: I just want him to disappear! I dredged the old news stories about Tedesco's mangled body into my consciousness. Then I looked again at Little E sleeping there. I couldn't join her. I sat up all night in the dark, almost hoping that Catherine's team would return to finish the job they had failed to do. Maybe then, I thought, I could die fighting, and at least it would be over for innocent bystanders like Strong and my daughters. I decided the time had really come to force a final confrontation—hopefully in a place where I would be the only possible target.
We can't surrender to people like her, I told myself. We don't have to leave town and live in fear of obsessive psychos. We turn that fear around and make them run.
I knew that is what I would have to do.
FIFTY-ONE
January 16, 1980
As soon as I sat down at my desk the morning after the burglary, my telephone extension started to ring. When I answered, I recognized the voice of another reporter in the newsroom. It was Mark—the guy I had introduced to Catherine at the Ramsey Christmas party in hopes he would sweep her off her feet and deliver me from her vengeance. I could also see that he, too, was in the newsroom, sitting at his desk about fifty feet away. I wondered why he had called instead of just walking over to chat. I also wondered why he was whispering his message that he wanted to huddle with me in one of our private conference rooms.
"I need to tell you something," he said sheepishly when he sat down in the room, which was about the size of a large closet with no windows. Each of these rooms held a small table and a couple of chairs. The staff used them for interviewing sources and private conversations when managers discussed a reporter's work. In deference to our current city editor, Johnny B, this room had been named the "Boo-Boo room." About five years younger than me, Mark was a handsome specimen—a tall, bearded, athletic guy who had been a star football player in high school. But now his face looked racked with a combination of guilt, fear, and suspicion. He looked broken. I knew he was going through a divorce and figured he probably wanted advice.
"It was me last night," he said, and at first I wasn't sure what he meant.
"You?" I asked and he nodded. "You what?"
"Me with Mehaffey."
I didn't know whether to laugh or yell as the pieces of my conversation with her melded together.
"You're the young man who thinks I'm crazy?" I said, as I started to laugh.
"No, I don't think you're crazy, but I was there. Taylor, what did you get me into?"
"You know what this makes you in this case, don't you? You are Mr. Alibi," and I laughed again as he nodded, then buried his face in his hands. "How did you get mixed up with her?"
"She called me about four yesterday and asked me out. We had dinner, then went back to her place for drinks."
"Did you fuck her?"
Once again he nodded and buried that face in his hands.
"Once you fuck her, Mark, you have to continue until she says you can stop."
His head shot back to attention with that observation, and he appeared terrified until I laughed to let him see I'd been joking.
"In your case, however, she might grant immunity," I said. "No offense, but it sounds like you were being used for a larger mission. Of course, I'm sure you gave her pleasure."
"Really, she was pretty much of a bum fuck."
"H
uh?" I was taken a bit by surprise that, in the midst of this turmoil, he would stop to give her performance a critical review. But then, I knew as well as anyone that boys must be boys, and I couldn't miss the chance to gig him a bit about it. "Don't worry about that. I bet she was distracted thinking about what was going on at my place. A bum fuck, eh? That's pretty harsh."
"Don't tell her I said that, man."
"Hell, I'm not telling anybody about that one. People would think I am crazy for going through all of this other bullshit with her, and she just turns out to be your bum fuck. That's embarrassing for me. People have to think I at least got some dynamite ass from her. So I won't let you destroy my image."
I smiled, but he didn't return the pleasantry. I could see he was suffering, so I got serious.
"You know what you have to do, now, don't you?" I asked. When he answered with a look of confusion, I continued, "You need to call Don Stricklin at the DA's office and tell him you were there. Did she have any other phone calls you heard? Maybe you have some evidence and that would change you from Mr. Alibi into Mr. Star Witness."
That comment seemed to worry him more. He shook his head and said, "I just want this to go away. That woman is poison. I never want to see her again."
"I don't see any way around calling Stricklin," I said. "Or you may eventually end up as Mr. Co-Conspirator doing five-to-ten in state prison. And, I think for your job security, we need to include Johnny B in this conversation."
Mark reluctantly agreed and said he would contact Stricklin after meeting with our boss, who came into the Boo-Boo Room with a curious look on his face. Mark's confession failed to improve Johnny's disposition on this day. The look of curiosity transitioned to shell shock and then I sensed a bit of rage, as Johnny lifted a finger and indicated for us to sit there while he stood and opened the closet door.
"I want everyone's attention," he yelled across the newsroom, where a couple dozen reporters sat working at their desks or chatting in the early hours of the news day. The place grew quiet as a church while everyone turned to Johnny, who would have looked strange, indeed, from that perspective—hanging in the open doorway of the Boo-Boo Room about to make some serious announcement. Good reporters all, they obviously wanted to learn why.
"If any one of you has had any personal dealings with Catherine Mehaffey—anything at all—I need you in this room right now."
I traded glances with Mark, and we both suppressed a giggle. I peeked around Johnny's back for a look into the newsroom and noticed several faces looking dumbfounded at his instruction. I couldn't remember anyone else out there who had encountered her, but, then again, I knew she was full of surprises.
"Last chance," he warned when no one moved. "I only want to go through this once."
Satisfied that Mark and I were her only Post connections, Johnny re-entered the room and issued a quick set of instructions. He told us he didn't want the Mehaffey cancer spreading any further into his newsroom. He ordered us to do what we already had vowed: "Leave that woman alone."
Throughout the day I heard twice again from Mark, after he had called Stricklin with his piece of the burglary story. One time, he said Catherine had called him for another date, but he had refused, telling her he did not want to get involved because the burglary had been too coincidental. The second time, Mark said he'd been contacted by another woman, one of Catherine's friends, asking him out on a blind date. He had rejected her as well.
"You're a real popular guy with the Mehaffey gang today, aren't you?" I joked as he scowled and mumbled again, "Taylor, what did you get me into?"
I tried to console him by adding, "I think you're OK. She won't want to alienate you as her alibi." As far as I know, he never heard from her again.
Blended into this mélange of work, Mark, and Johnny B, however, I spent part of the day fielding calls from Strong, as well. He had been doing a bit of work on Catherine, trying to convince her that the burglary had separated him and left me isolated. They had met for lunch, and she had insisted on frisking him before they talked. He demanded a return of his Beta Max and other property in exchange for a promise to disavow my existence. Although Catherine continued to deny involvement in the burglary, Strong said, she also indicated she might know someone who could help.
"I think we're making progress," he told me in a phone call. "If we can catch her returning any of that property, she goes straight to fucking jail."
FIFTY-TWO
January 17, 1980
It took only a day for Strong's prediction to come true, or, at least part of it. Whenever he called me at the office to update, his messages were cryptic but optimistic. He finally told me to stay away from the house that night. He said I should just call later to see what had happened. He assured me he was continuing to share his maneuvers with Stricklin at Special Crimes. I thought he was enjoying this role as an undercover go-between a bit too much, but I had to play along and trust him. The more I thought about that night after the burglary and the danger to my daughter, the more I realized I had to bring this standoff with Catherine to a conclusion, regardless of the consequences for me.
Mark had invited me to drop by his lonely condo for dinner that night and swap some stories over a few beers. After grilling steaks, we recounted our impressions through the unique bonding experience available only to men who have shared the same psycho babe. He even had grown receptive to my constant teasing of his use as an alibi.
"You know, Mark, you must be careful not to violate the 11th commandment," I advised with all the wisdom gleaned in my nearly thirty-three years.
"I'm not familiar with that one," he laughed, anticipating sarcasm.
"That's the one that instructs: 'Thou shalt not take thyself too seriously.' In five years you will look back on all this and be really disappointed if you failed to have fun with the experiences."
"Heh, heh, and the wind cries Mooohaaaafeee," he chuckled, doing a weak imitation of Jimi Hendrix on The Wind Cries Mary.
"Hey," I said, "we should each get a T-shirt that identifies each of us as a 'Mehaffey Surivivor.' From what I hear around the courthouse, there might even be a market for those."
"That's assuming we do survive. But promise me again you won't let her know we were talking like this," he said in a tone that still sounded about half serious.
"Lips are sealed," I vowed with a laugh. "And I've even already forgotten you called her a bum fuck."
When he responded with a laugh instead of a grimace, I slapped him on the arm and said, "That's the spirit."
As I drove from his condo I couldn't help but grin at our locker room bravado. I knew even then that she had given both of us a new perspective on the sexual revolution. Looking back, I realize that cultural watershed was entering a new phase in 1980, as the first period of unlimited experimentation and sexual muscle-flexing was drawing to a close for the Boomers. Experiences like those with Catherine had reshaped the outlook of many more than me and Mark. I recognized for the first time that no one can predict the individual demons to be unleashed when two strangers have sex. I wouldn't stop answering the call, of course, whenever opportunity knocked. At the same time, however, I knew I would always recognize the reality of the unexpected emotional element more than ever before and strive to understand my partners a little better than I had in the past. I believed Catherine's demons were extreme, but it took that to make me understand there is more to getting laid than just getting laid. I wondered if maybe I had failed to give due credit to the prudes who always warned us to go slow. Maybe they actually had a good reason to incorporate such precautions into their moral code. I believed Mark had experienced a similar awakening. Maybe in the future he would foreswear sex until at least the second date. I wasn't prepared to go that far. But I certainly would be watching my potential partners a lot more closely than I had in the past.
"Buzz on back, I've got a surprise for you," said Strong, when I called him from a bar on the way back from Mark's. I thought perhaps he had somehow reso
lved all of our problems. But I was unprepared for his "surprise" when I walked through the door into a darkened entryway and spotted him sitting in a rocking chair in the living room talking to someone on the couch a few feet away. He looked at me, stopped talking, and grinned as Catherine peeked around the side of the couch with a scowl on her face. She said nothing.
